


Looking for the Golden Light

by scorchedmint



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Personas (Persona Series), Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Consensual Underage Sex, Ephebophilia, F/F, F/M, Gore, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kurusu Akira is the name used for the Protag, Literal Thieves of Hearts, M/M, Mental Anguish, Multi, Murder, Organized Crime, POLYTHIEVES - Freeform, Polyamory, Revenge, Secret Organizations, Torture, Unsafe Sex, Useless Adults, Vigilantism, vomitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorchedmint/pseuds/scorchedmint
Summary: Unfortunately, as many have learned, life is hardly ever fair and rarely ever just.





	1. Sacrificial

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished P5 and I couldn't help but want to do a more literal take on 'stealing hearts', and the Phantoms in general. Contains descriptions of torture and gore, blood, underage sex, and the lives of teenagers who should have never had to resort to this. 
> 
> Sex doesn't happen until after the first chapter, but there will be gore and such in many of them. Please leave now if this makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> Please mind the tags.

What is there to be said of justice?

Surely, it is as complicated as the feelings surrounding the word itself. To each person, it meant something different; one might think of it as law and order  _ (whatever that means in a society like their own) _ , another might see it as retribution for harming another living thing. A plethora of reasons will lead both the righteous and the damned spiralling out of control, into darker depths than perhaps was sought; until the line between justice and revenge blurs, until the goal becomes physical,  _ palpable  _ in the mouths of the victimized. The true justice is not letting it get to the point that one must seek out their own version of it, protecting the ones who were harmed. It is a disgusting truth, the kind that sticks to the back of throats and curdles in stomachs, but it is the truth all the same. 

Unfortunately, as many have learned, life is hardly ever fair and rarely ever just.

* * *

 

Akira first discovered this as a student, entering his second year of high school. Protecting a woman from a drunken man  _ (he can still remember the smell of his breath, thick with alcohol) _ , arrested on the spot simply because the man had political power. His trial was entirely unfair, with a practiced lie of a retelling that made his blood absolutely boil in his veins. When he was let off with just parole, his parents guide him into their car with hands clasped tight on his shoulders, muttering their disappointments in his ear. They berate him the entire drive home, talk about sending him away, and the rage that burns his cheeks feels harsher than any punishment he could have received. 

Finding someone to take him in took too short a time  _ (so much so that Akira wonders if his parents have thought of sending him away before) _ , and before he knew it he was packed up and shipped out to Aoyama-itchōme, to some small house out in the back streets near the station. It took a little bit of walking around  _ (and no small amount of eavesdropping) _ to figure out where his new caretaker was, but the entire time all he could think of was how angry he was at the bastard who convicted him. He was an honest kid, did his schoolwork and never stayed out late, did  _ everything _ he could to be a good son-- and what did he get in return? False charges of assault? He can hardly hear Sojiro talk over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

Akira thanks him for taking care of him, keeps to himself up in the attic and cleans until his fingers are raw. There’s something serene about scrubbing a dust-crusted floor, something unplaceable about cleaning off old tables and stacking molded-over books in a corner where he wouldn’t catch his death from them. He bites his tongue and tries to let his emotions out in the bustle of chores, tucking sheets over the flimsy mattress he’d been provided, making his bed with the ancient pink duvet. It smelt like mothballs, like wet wood and the lingering spice of curry, but he could call the attic his space now. His box of clothes sits on one of the shelves with a bunch of coffee beans, and he wonders if his favorite sweater would absorb the scents of this cafe. Akira keeps quiet, even as his stomach growls and his head throbs, and he bids Sojiro a good night when he leaves the store. The boy pitches forward onto the bed, just letting himself get smothered in the blanket for a few moments, but just moments turn to minutes.

Its hardly ten minutes later when the landline rings downstairs, and Akira audibly groans, rolling off the thin mattress and trudging down the stairs to pick up with a  _ (softer than he feels) _ greeting. He flips the sign as asked, drags his body back up to his room, and dreams of nothing but the face of the man who caused all this. Akira wakes angry, but more than that he wakes up utterly and completely exhausted. The smell of coffee and curry is strong in the room, and he dresses in uniform, eating the meal Sojiro tossed at him and tried not to think. If he did, he might focus too hard on the distant sound of people bustling outside, on the bone-deep weary feeling that seeps under his skin.

* * *

 

This next year was going to drain him dry, he just knew it, and it’s only by chance that he finds someone who’s in a startlingly similar position to him.

Ryuji is brash, vulgar; everything adults tell him to look out for in troublemakers-- but now he wonders how much of that is truth, and what’s dipped in the thick lies of self-servitude. Because now Akira himself would be lumped into that category, and he’d done nothing wrong; a few days of talking up Ryuji proved him to be just as he thought. Misunderstood, antagonized, abused. He walks with a slight limp, like the bones of his leg that were broken never quite set right, and just knowing  _ that _ , even without all the evidence of the abused volleyball students-- it gives him that same rush of anger, of helplessness. The cruelty of knowing that they were powerless to stop Kamoshida’s reign over the school made him tense with every moment that they pass each other in the hallways. 

And, when the girl who sits in front of him in class confesses to him the coercion, how Kamoshida is trying to get into her pants and she can’t see a way out-- that’s when his resolve to stay silent breaks. How can he possibly ignore this? There’s no way around the fact that Kamoshida is scum of the Earth, but what can he do? He spends two weeks thinking, planning, texting Ryuji and Ann and trying to see if they can compile evidence against the volleyball coach, but every attempt is met with a roadblock, a thwarted interview. Ultimately, they get caught by the vile man himself  _ (threatened with definite expulsion) _ , and it becomes clear that nobody but them were going to be doing anything about this. He invites his only two friends over to the cafe, waits until Sojiro closes shop before bringing up his only solution.

“We should get rid of him. It’s the only way to stop him.”

Akira is met with breathless silence-- if you dropped a pin, he’d hear it against the wood of the attic floor. He keeps his head even with their lines of sight, looking into each sets of their eyes as they stared at him, blank-faced. Ann is the first to break, looking down at her hands  _ (they’re clasped together, shaking) _ and breathing in sharply. He can see her work it over in her mind, like they’ve all been doing for days, and by the time her eyes turn steely, Ryuji is putting his head into his hands. Akira waits, and waits, and  _ waits _ until Ryuji looks over to Ann, until they share a look that he can’t pin, and look over to him, nodding. 

“There really is no other way, is there?”

Shaking his head feels repetitive, but it only makes his friends clench their jaws, whole bodies tense and Akira feels the strangest sense of pride as they pull out notebooks, go over the notes they have on him, all the evidence they’ve gathered. They’ll need a plan, weapons, alibis. Masks to conceal their faces, gloves to hide fingerprints and clothes to conceal themselves in. It takes them another week before they feel confident in their supplies and plan, on the day they chose to perform the ultimate human sin. They take time to make masks by hand after school, stuffed up in his attic room and it doesn’t really feel…  _ real _ .

* * *

 

Not until its the night of their little ‘heist’, as they’ve taken to calling it. They’re dressed head to toe in black; plain enough to be street clothes, but all together they looked like they had a mission to adhere to. Ann’s heels click on the pavement as they walk, quietly whispering their plans to each other, Akira’s coat lined up with all manners of illegalities. _Knives, rope, duct tape, the jar--_ he goes over them in his head, all the way until they check the address of the building they stop in front of.

It was late at night, only the light from the street lamps to illuminate the way up the staircase to Kamoshida’s apartment. Ryuji tests out the knob of the door, finding it unlocked, and rolled his eyes. He was so confident in himself that he didn’t think to lock his door, did he? They slip in, unnoticed, and shut the door behind them, remembering to lock it so he couldn’t sprint by them. Akira tosses the rope and tape to Ryuji, who had bulk enough to hold the coach down, while handing Ann one of the paring knives he’d bought at a home supply store, taking its duplicate out for his own use. They wait patiently, peering into rooms until they found a sleeping Kamoshida, none-the-wiser that tonight would be his reckoning. 

Ryuji works quietly, swiftly; Kamoshida only stirs once _(such a heavy sleeper for a man whose crimes outweigh his good deeds)_ , but doesn’t wake enough to move out of the restraints that are being wound about his wrists and ankles, his knees, his chest. Only once Ryuji’s got a thick strip of tape across his mouth does he stir, eyebrows furrowed. His friend rolls him onto the floor, and when the man realizes he can’t run, his eyes go wide with panic. Akira is off to the side, taking out tool after tool and placing them on his nightstand. A jar, antiseptic, scissors. Two more paring knives, sharp in the dim light filtering in through the curtains.  When Akira speaks, its nothing like the soft tones he uses in school, the whispering voice he projects to the public. It’s thick with rage barely constrained, a little manic, and his gaze sears across Kamoshida’s terror-stricken face. 

“Sir Suguru Kamoshida…” he starts, waving a finger towards Ryuji and Ann, who stand on either side of him. “The utter bastard of lust.”

Adjusting his gloves, he jerks his chin towards the disgusting man, watches as Ann jabs her foot into his rib cage. He recites the card that he keeps hidden away in his pocket, watches with increasing joy as his partners work him over like a particularly stubborn weed with each condemning word. He can see the same glint in the eyes of his accomplices, eager as they are to tear into this human whom is lower than dirt. He opens up the jar, twirls a knife between crimson-covered fingers, grins when he can see the first slice of a cut split Kamoshida’s skin. 

“We’ve decided to steal away those desires.”

Akira doesn’t think about this like sin, though; he sees it as  _ justice _ , as  _ revenge  _ for those weaker than this disgusting excuse for a coach, but he isn’t an idiot. If they got away with this, could they  _ really  _ live with themselves, with what they’d done?

Turns out, when you have an abusive ephebophile bleeding out in his own apartment  _ (listening to him beg for his life despite all the awful things he’s done, muffled by the tape sealing his lips) _ , feeling pity is remarkably difficult. Ann is standing over him, high heel digging into his chest, and Ryuji has to remind her not to leave identifying marks as she leans over his body, feet on either side of him now. Ryuji had a good go at him when he started to struggle, littering him in bruises and bleeding cuts. Now they both stand back to watch Ann’s anger manifest, her eyes dangerous as she asks for another knife. Akira hands it over with nothing but a flick of his wrist, and if the bastard screams, they certainly can’t hear it.

He’d describe it as beautiful, but nothing borne of Kamoshida’s flesh could ever be.

Once they clean up a bit in his apartment  _ (washing knives and taking back rope, ripping the tape from his lips) _ , they place a simple card on his chest, over the hollow space where his heart once was. Ann hands him the jar she stuffed the organ in, sanitized and clean, and he stuffs it into the pouch of his coat he made for this purpose. They pack up their tools, leave no trace of themselves in or around the apartment, and go their separate ways. Akira hasn’t decided what he’ll do with the heart sitting limp in the folds of his coat, but that’s going to be a problem for later, when he can think a little more clearly, a little less erratically.

* * *

 

He’s vomiting in the LeBlanc bathroom the next morning, the toll of taking a human life fresh in his mind. None of the blood had ever gotten onto his skin, but its almost as if he can feel it anyway, slick and warm. The jar sits upstairs, hidden behind stacks of books and an old plant, but he can still picture the moment Ann ripped it from his chest, slicing through arteries and letting the blood spray out across the floor and ceiling. With perfect clarity, he can recall how she made this noise  _ (perfect, like a bird released from its cage) _ , how she held his still-beating heart in her palms and  _ squeezed  _ until it stopped. Ann had flicked her gaze over at Ryuji with a face splattered in blood, and that same look passed between them, the one with an unnamed emotion that he might not ever learn. But now, here in the bathroom with the door locked, all he can think about is the sound the heart made as it pulsed in her hand. A squelching, wet sound that echoed in the room, in his ears. He wonders _(vomit clinging to his lips)_ if he'll ever get the noise out of his head.

He resolves to take a bath, to let the steam clear his mind, the water soothe his soul.


	2. Ritualistic

Nobody hears from Kamoshida for days, but when someone eventually goes over to his place to check in on him, all they find is his rotting corpse; a sticky, bloodstained card lain atop his body like a suture. 

* * *

 

_ “Sir Suguru Kamoshida, the Utter Bastard of Lust, _

 

_ We know how shitty you are, putting your twisted desires on students who can’t fight back. That’s why we’ve decided to steal away those desires, and thus, your heart. This is the only way for you to repent for your many sins. _

 

 

  * __The Phantom Thieves of Hearts”__



* * *

 

It makes the news, and more than guilt, the three of them feel instant, utter  _ relief _ . It shouldn’t feel so good to see the body bag on the small RCTV in Akira’s room, but as the reporters drone on and on about what it could mean to have a group of killers out on the loose, they all slump into each other, exhausted. The school is shaken, but they insist students continue to attend and finish their classwork. The volleyball team is visibly relieved, and the tension that had hung over Shujin Academy since Akira arrived entirely dissipated. Ann is slumped over in her seat in front of him, arms cradling her head, and he gently nudges his foot against where her’s are tucked against the chair. Guilt only sets in later on, when the sun is turning the sky yellow. The rest of the day is spent like every single one before them; only now, the anxiety of getting caught made it harder to focus, to concentrate on only work and not to worry over the heart that sits up in his bedroom.

* * *

 

At night, he dreams of being trapped in a cell, heavy chains weighing down his every movement, cling-clanging as he swings his legs over the side of a cot. His body always feels heavy in this dream, like the weight of his soul is making him drag his feet as he paces the small cell. Sometimes, if he looks too fast to the right, he thinks he can see a creature draped in red, with sleeves that drag on the floor  _ (through something he can’t see, thick and clinging to it)  _ and wings that arch around it, cramped in the small space. The face it wears haunts him; golden, glowing with flames that lick at the formless features around it; fuel feeding endlessly into its own fire. He wakes sweating on nights like this, curled around himself and shaking.

* * *

 

They stay this way for a week, waiting as days flowed into each other, wondering who would be blamed for the late coach’s death. Nothing came of it, though; just news coverage, speculating who these supposed ‘Thieves’ could be, why they decided to take the life of this man. Students at Shujin were questioned  _ (both for statements and for press release) _ , brought into the student council room one by one. Akira said only what was necessary; he’d only been here for a little while, had no idea why what happened did. Ann went in after him, and at the very least he has the comfort to know that the rage she speaks with isn’t faked. He can hear her choked cry from behind the door, the outrage in her tone as she describes the sins of this man, her relief that at least he could keep hurting her or her friend. Ann stuffs her face in his arm as they walk back to class, the barest hint of her crying heard only in sniffles.

When he sees Ryuji later, after classes are over and students shuffle to their clubs and sport meets, he drags him up to the roof, collapses against a wall. Looking at his friend makes him wince  _ (he looks like he’d been crying, his body ragdolled against wall and roof) _ , until he slides down the wall to join him, arms resting on his knees. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, but Ryuji is clutching his leg, as if even by  _ thinking  _ of Kamoshida makes his bones ache with an indescribable helplessness. Then, softly, he can hear Ryuji’s voice as he struggles to speak, throaty.

“My dreams, I…” Ryuji whispers, arm covering his eyes while Akira looked down at him, curiosity burning his eyes as he forced them to stay open. “The ocean is around me, and a man with scraps of skin pushes me along the deck of a boat. He’s not human, he’s missing an eye and a face and--” here Ryuji pauses, lets out a shaking breath. “I feel so…  _ powerful _ . In those dreams.”

Akira is at a loss of what to say-- should he reconcile, tell Ryuji of the creature he dreams of at night? Before he can formulate a response, his head hits Akira’s shoulder, a silent thank-you for what they’ve done. The sun is turning the sky pink when Ann peeks at them from the doors to the roof, talking about going out to get something to eat, and they all decide that it might be a good idea. Who knows how much food any of them have been able to keep down.

* * *

 

They all go out, pretend not to be falling apart and eat a dinner of celebration, but it only lasts so long. Before the night turns dark, Ryuji brings them to his house  _ (his mother works long, tireless shifts, and that in itself in an injustice) _ to settle down, to rid their heads of such awful thoughts. He tosses them sodas, turns on a videogame, invites the distraction of mindless racing games until Ann is resting her head on Ryuji’s shoulder. Perhaps she’s tired, or feeling a bit hollow-- but whatever the case, just seeing her look distant as they pause the game makes Akira feel as if he’s aged twenty years in a day.

“I have dreams,” she says, “Of a woman burned pink, who dances with the throats of men on leashes. I don’t know what it means, but…” Ann turns her head towards Akira, to where he curiously traces the line of her smile. “For some reason, when I see her, I… I feel more  _ alive _ .”

Ryuji has his hand on her hip, rubbing circles into the skin that peeks out from under her tank top, and Akira watches as Ann sinks further into the bleached blonde’s side. Her hand reaches for him  _ (the same one she used to squeeze the life out of Kamoshida) _ slowly, until her fingertips brush the skin of his cheek and he feels as though he’s been burned; he wonders exactly what she wants when her thumb grazes his lashes. Her smile is soft, just a gentle upturn of the lips, but all Akira can see is the red that had dripped from her chin not even a week ago.

“This whole thing-- it’s a mess, but…” Ann bites her lip, leans a bit forward, cradles his head with both hands  _ (surely it’d be more difficult to crush a skull than a heart) _ , and leans up close,  _ too  _ close, so close that he can feel her breath on his skin. “...I’m so glad we did this.”

When he redirects his gaze up to Ryuji, he’s a little surprised to find the heat that burns in his gaze, the same strange fondness that the two before him show each other. His throat feels tight, and when he swallows dryly they both move closer to him, and  _ maybe  _ now he understands what those looks mean _(he feels hunted, like a rabbit in the jaws of wolves)_. He’d be a fool not to when Ann’s pressing her lips to his jaw, when Ryuji’s stroking a hand up his side and nipping at his ear; he lets out a shaking, surprised breath and tilts his head to the side, Ryuji’s lips just barely grazing his own. 

“...is this okay?” He asks, and Akira can’t find it in himself to speak  _ (thinking of his hands tying rope, methodical, tight) _ , but a nod is all they need before their hands are all over him, pushing up his shirt and capturing his lips in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. Akira had never expected to be in such a situation, squeezed between the only two friends he has; but he certainly isn’t complaining. Not when Ryuji bites into his throat, leaving trails of red-purple marks along his pale skin, or when Ann is fisting his cock, hand soft against him. He drags Ann up to kiss her while Ryuji slides further down his body, batting Ann’s hand away before suckling the head of his dick like his life depended on it.

Akira makes this noise like he’s being strangled, and Ann laughs against his lips, pulling away to pull her tank over her head and tossing it to some unknown corner of Ryuji’s messy room. He thinks they all look quite good like this, all flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and he doesn’t resist when Ann pushes him fully onto his back, slipping out of her skirt and panties  _ (the unfortunate articles of clothing meet the same fate as her top) _ ; and straddling his head. Akira runs his hands along the backs of her thighs, whispers praises into the skin he can kiss, until she rolls her hips with an impatience he hopes to commit to memory. It’s a bit difficult to focus when he can feel his cock hit the back of Ryuji’s throat, but somehow he manages, licking along Ann’s folds before suckling her clit.

The video game stays abandoned in the wake of their impulses, pause screen blinking, the only source of the light in the room casting them in a multi-colored glow. Akira remains between them, arching his back into Ryuji’s touch and rocking his hips forward into Ann’s slick, tight cunt, barely muffled moaning seeming to echo in the small room. He reaches back to guide Ryuji’s slippery fingers, to replace them with his leaking cock, until they melded together with sweat and slick and cum.

* * *

 

Its late enough that Akira worries about catching the train, but how could he want to go back to LeBlanc when he’s wedged between the only two other people in the room who share this dark secret?


	3. Patricidal

They hadn’t intended on a second victim, not really.

 _‘Well, murderers hardly ever do, do they?’_ Akira thinks, pushes his glasses further up his nose.

* * *

It’s strange, meeting a boy with blue hair who speaks like something out of a bad romance novel outside of the train station; he’s filled with passion and hunger and when Akira looks at him, he can see the bags under his eyes a little too clearly. They text, and he paints Ann _(but she refuses to budge on wearing something, anything, while he paints her)_ , and its difficult to get him to open up. Akira gets a nasty sort of feeling in his gut when Yusuke tells them over tea about why he lives here, why there’s hardly any food in the house, why the rooms are cold and empty and vacant. He will not look any of them in the eye-- not Ryuji, not Akira, and not even _Ann_ , who he lathes with praise for what the gods have graced her with. They all can’t ignore the slim figure of their new friend, nor can they ignore how he gets this panicked flash in his eyes whenever he thinks the front door is opening. It makes something ugly curl up in Akira’s guts when he talks to Yusuke, like a snake wormed its way into his intestines-- he has to physically stop himself from reaching out to him, from offering help without proof.

So they bide their time, and Ann gets painted with opaque sheets wrapped around her form like a mourning shroud, and Akira can’t help but think of how fitting it is to see her look so serene. Ryuji is playing a game on his phone, idly passing time with the occasional glance up, the camera up on his phone to snap a few quick shots of Ann while she looks at him with death in her eyes. Akira makes plans to see Yusuke again _(he’s always planning these days, scheduling, scheming)_ , offers to feed him at the cafe, and that same uncomfortable hunger drags the pits of his pupils to the edges of his irises. There is this unnatural delicacy to him, this boy made of sinew and birdbone that would snap so easily under Akira’s grip. It’s not a pleasant thought that joins him while he watches Yusuke; more intrusive than that, possessive; but he knows better than to stake a claim on a man like him, to who trust does not come so easily.

At least, not yet.

* * *

 

LeBlanc feels different with him in it, like some small part of Akira’s world is shifting into proper focus, but he pushes the thought aside when Sojiro closes shop early, leaving them with heaping servings of curry that Yusuke eyes with the kind of desire Akira reserves for late night excursions with his lovers. It’s just the two of them here, alone with the dull sounds of the near-mute television droning on in the background, and Akira watches the tendons in his fingers as Yusuke eats like a man starved. He thinks that maybe he is, with how his clothes hang and his jaw shakes; when he softly asks when the last time he ate was, Yusuke gives him a sideways look, light glinting off his eyes in a way reminiscent of some kind of predator. Then, slowly, with a stillness that makes Akira shiver, he mutters something with an equal softness.

“I’m not certain I’ve ever felt full.”

And _oh_ , what a strange sort of man he must be, to gaze upon a killer with no fear and less awareness. It makes that same twist in his gut relax, curl into something more pleasant, and he thinks maybe that the Thieves can help him. It takes a while to fish information out of him, of the way he’s treated like meat _(expendable, but only just)_ and ignored until he’s of use; he can see the vein throb in Ann’s forehead the longer he speaks. It’s with a silent kind of calculation that Ann texts him one day, calling for a meeting about Yusuke.

* * *

 “He’s the same as me,” Ann states plainly, a distant sort of look glazing her eyes. “Not exactly, not for the same reasons. But we’re the same.”

“How’d you figure?” Ryuji only asks once the silence stretches, when Ann looks more liable to faint from anguish than speak.

She startles, snapping her head down, fists clenched tightly in her lap. “The abuse-- its not simply… the plagiarism, or the starvation.” Akira understands nearly instantly, but he can see Ryuji putting together the pieces, getting this twitch in his brow that makes Akira want to kiss it away. He rises to sit next to Ann, to grip her hand tightly in his own; when Ryuji finally pales at his realization, he takes two large steps across the room to kneel at Ann’s feet, taking her other hand and clutching it tight enough that his knuckles turn white.

“We can help him.”

* * *

 Weeks later, when Madarame’s Exhibit is live and they visit, its difficult to keep a straight face. Yusuke stands, silent, at his teacher’s side, and they can see the way he bites down his excitement when he catches a glance of them. The ‘artist’ himself is blabbering to the media, camera primed and focused on him as he speaks falsities into the microphone. Ann bites her lip, turns away to look at the paintings hung up like nooses, and all they can do is follow, listen, hide away in corners of the museum to wait for Yusuke to depart his teacher. And when he does, they pull him aside, tucked behind rows of walls and paintings that are as genuine as they are Madarame’s. He doesn’t like confrontation _(anyone can see it, no matter how short a time they know the artist)_ , but he hears them out, looks ashamed and riled up all at the same time, agrees to letting them snoop around so long as they don’t get caught.

* * *

 

“There’s this room,” Yusuke says as they walk to the station, hands wrung in front of him like wet rag. “That I’m not allowed into. None of the students are. It’s locked, but...” he trails off, and Akira nods his head, moves around him cautiously as they grip the bands on the train. For the ride they stay silent, listening to the idle chatter of other passengers before following Yusuke back to Madarame’s ‘humble’ home; the way his hands shake as he unlocks the door makes Akira want to steady his hand, and when he looks over at Ryuji and Ann, a similar sort of look passes over them.

They follow him up the stairs, past his room, to a small door with a padlock and they take a deep breath in. They aren’t as lucky this time, not when the lock on the door is as thick as it is. Akira never had a knack for something like this, but Ann’s hands are deft and delicate, and she takes to lockpicking like a cat to hunting. It takes a few stressful moments where Yusuke is lingering uncomfortably near the hallway _(listening, but has he ever felt a moment of peace?)_ , waiting to hear the soft ‘click’ of the lock as Ann pulls it away from the door.

The significance of these paintings are lost on them, but Yusuke makes this absolutely _painful_ choking noise as he pushes past them, staring in horror at the replicants of this painting. Its rather beautiful _(a woman in red, fondly looking down)_ , but Yusuke mutters “Sayuri,” under his breath, and they understand.

* * *

The disadvantage to sleeping in such an old-fashioned house is that they’re remarkably easy to break into. Even if they didn’t have the help of Yusuke, the window locks were hardly tough enough to stop them from snapping the panes open, or scaling old wood that started to peel from the home to climb in up in one of the opened windows upstairs. But, thankfully, they didn’t have to do that. The clothes they don are the same from last time, black from head to toe and with masks covering their faces. The only difference _this_ time is the addition of their new friend, and the names they’ve given _themselves_ for cover. Yusuke hesitates for only a moment before putting his on, shakily taking the knife Akira offers to him on the way up the stairs.

“Go for it, Skull.” he mutters to Ryuji, tossing him the rope, the tape. Joker offers only a smile _(too wide, too happy)_ before putting a finger up to his lips, signalling Skull to enter the room first, closely followed by Panther, silently trailing behind him.

There’s a struggle this time, where Madarame swings out a fist to collide with Panther’s jaw, and the poor fool only has a few more moments before Skull wrestles him into submission. Joker gives them a thumbs-up when Panther’s drawn the duct tape thickly over his mouth, when Skull has him bound and drags him into a more easily cleaned room.

“Sir Ichiryusai Madarame, a great sinner of vanity whose talent has been exhausted.”

His boots sound heavy against the old wooden floor, while he paces and reads from the calling card. His smile never wavers, not even as Fox impatiently taps his foot while leaning against the wall. He had a hand in writing it, after all; it was only fitting that he gets to hear it, to watch the panic fully settle into Madarame’s face.“We’ve decided to make you confess those desires with your own mouth.”

Joker isn’t sure what he thought Yusuke _(no, Fox--)_ would do to the old man, but he should have known he would want to take it _slow_. The way he drags the knife down his chest is too familiar, and the fear that flashes in Madarame’s eyes is strangely sharp, watery. He pulls the tape from the old man’s mouth slowly, with each centimeter comes a promise of pain if he so much as breathes wrong, much less screams for help. Fox’s voice is cold, harsh, bitten with a sharp click of his tongue as he discards the thick tape.

“You will pay, but first, answer me this…” Fox taps the edge of the knife against Madarame’s lip, drags it feather-light to the high point of his cheekbone. “...why do such a disgraceful thing to the ‘Sayuri’? To _me?_ ”

It takes a few moments for the elder to get past his fear-stricken silence, to mutter out something illegible to where Joker and Panther stood, but Fox seems to hear him perfectly fine. In the next few moments things are a blur, and Fox has driven the knife straight into the tender flesh of his cheek; Madarame makes to shriek, to pull away, but Skull holds his head steady, his jaw shut. Joker follows the way his blood pours over Skull’s covered fingers, thick and dark and he only tears his eyes away when Fox is pacing in circles around him.

“Anything I do is too kind.”

Skull must’ve gestured something to him _(not that he or Panther can see, not with where Fox came to a stop in front of the old man)_ , because Fox kneels down to Madarame’s level, traces his sliced up cheek before dragging blood-stained gloves down to his chest and tapping his sternum. Skull’s grip changes _(Panther is prepping a jar, bringing out the alcohol, the more delicate blades)_ , pulling him more horizontal, and Joker is entranced by the slow way Fox slices his way to Madarame’s ribcage. Methodically, like he’s thought this through so many times it’s near second nature to break past each fragile bone to get at his heart. Madarame’s screams are muffled, but he’s weeping, bleeding out, and Fox doesn’t lose a bit of grace when he slices through each artery, when he pulls the still-beating organ from his chest to show it to the old man before he passed.

* * *

Fox helps Panther clean it, rinse and sanitize the old thing, before sealing it away in a jar similar to the one they used for Kamoshida. Fox gives his bow a flourish when he presents it to Joker, and he only catches the glimpse of relief in his eyes once they’re far from there, holed up in LeBlanc with the bag filled with their bloodied clothes. Akira promises to wash them for his friends, suggests the bathhouse across the street to get clean and refreshed. Yusuke trails behind them, even as Ryuji is racing Ann to the changing rooms, and he pauses to rest his hand lightly on the artist’s shoulder.

“You’re safe, now.”

The bathhouse is more or less abandoned, so they all pile into the medicinal bath and groan as their bodies struggle to release the tension stored up in them from the past couple of weeks. Yusuke seems so _shy_ , covering himself, curling in on his own body like he’s imploding, and Ann shoots Akira a look before scooting next to him. She raises his head with such delicacy that Akira can almost forget how she used those fingers to pick locks, to scrub a heart clean for preservation. Yusuke makes another noise, soft and small like a dying bird, and Ann chases it with kisses and mumbled niceties against his lips.


	4. Bereavement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!

They don’t sleep together that night, but they do talk Yusuke through his role. How he must return, the kind of scene he must make when he ‘discovers’ Madarame’s body, the note written upon his chest sobbed out in a staggering crescendo. He shakes, and they clutch his body tightly  _ (arms on arms on arms) _ before they let him go, watch his back disappear down the street. Ryuji and Ann don’t linger after, even when the colors of their eyes seem so much more vibrant, alive with the freshness of their crime, glittering and gleaming. Akira watches their forms slowly disappear around the corner of the sidestreet LeBlanc is tucked into, and he waits ten whole minutes before deciding to maybe go back inside.

The cat that lingers around the cafe circles his feet, meows like he isn’t aware of the blood on Akira’s soul, and he spends a moment to just pet the wild thing. It purrs as if its never known the touch of a human hand, and if Akira spends too long idling with the door open, and the cat gets in, he doesn’t intend to mention it to Sojiro. 

What’s another stray when an urchin like him already lives here?

Just as with the first, his heart hammers in his chest with every unknown noise; his stomach lurches at the idea of food, and his skin feels as if its been lit aflame by the spark of sin. He didn’t consider himself particularly religious  _ (not when he has been so thoroughly abandoned by the people who he thought cared) _ , but he mutters a quick beg of forgiveness for taking the steps that others did not, and one for the fortitude to continue doing so. His sleep is haunted by that tall figure, wings encircling him and grin stretching ever-wider, his skin licked by the rapturous fire that spews forth from its jagged lips.

* * *

 

“His caretaker died.” Akira starts in the morning, pushing the curry around on his plate. “He can’t stay there.”

Sojiro doesn’t say anything, just pauses in his wipe-down of the counter to stare at him. Akira hopes he doesn’t see that the tremble he has in shoulders is as faux as the leather of Sojiro’s shoes; when a few long moments pass where he gets no closer to finishing his meal  _ (it always tastes too strong after they’ve committed their heinous acts) _ , he hears the man shift; a glance up and he’s nodding, reaching out to pat his shoulder. The guilt can’t seem to settle in fast enough, sticking to his bones with the spice of the curry, but he pushes on. 

He must.

With a sigh that sounds more exhausted than his knife hand feels, Sojiro gives him a short, jerky nod, the bags under his eyes as heavy as Akira’s soul feels. “Tell him he can stay here until he finds somewhere else to go.”

Akira wonders how much it costs to buy a futon for Yusuke to sleep on.

* * *

 

They watch the news report on their phones at lunch.

The note is read aloud in the same way as the first, with a shaking, uneasy voice. Their calling card is on the screen, brilliant red and black with their updated symbol, and pride swells in Akira’s heart as he hears Yusuke’s honest call to justice. 

“Sir Ichiryusai Madarame,” The reporter begins, “a great sinner of vanity whose talent has been exhausted. You are an artist who uses his authority to shamelessly steal the ideas of his pupils.” Here the reporter pauses, takes a deep swallow of water. “We’ve decided to make you confess those desires with your own mouth. We will take your distorted heart without fail…”

Ryuji looks proud, and Ann gives Akira a firm squeeze to the bicep to catch his attention. 

“What did Sojiro say?” She asks, voice clipped and strained, as she is feeling the same sort of numbness that they all experience after a job. “About Yusuke?”

“He’s going to be staying with me,” Akira mutters, texting the other boy from underneath his desk, only glancing up once when Kawakami enters the room, dismissing lingering students from other classes. “I’m picking up a futon for him after school.”

Kawakami is giving him a curious look, like she’s thinking too hard and just barely missing a mark, and he effectively disarms her with a small smile. Just the slightest upturn of his lips, hardly more than a fleeting moment, before he turns his head back to the window. 

Ryuji returns to his classroom. Class carries on.

* * *

 

They join him on his stop to the underground mall, where he weaves through storefronts and curls around corners like a shadow, picking up items to purchase before putting them into his bag. He’s heavily rationing his money  _ (and picks up a few applications along the way) _ , and he manages to have just enough for a simple futon to bring home. It’s bulky to carry, but Ryuji doesn’t mind helping, and it's a comfort to have his two accomplices there with him. People give them strange looks, but when haven’t they? Akira pays them no mind when he gets off the train with his friends, wrangling their purchases into the cafe and up the stairs to his little attic room. 

With an excited purr, the stray cat  _ (although Akira doesn’t know if he can keep calling it that)  _ weaves through their legs, settling itself onto Akira’s bed as if it had always been there. He sends Yusuke a text and is pleased to see his swift reply; Ryuji and Ann are hooking up a shitty vintage game system to his ancient TV to entertain themselves until their newest member’s arrival. Akira busies himself by filling out the job applications; one for a flower shop, a convenience store, a bookstore, that gyudon place that he passed once or twice on the way to Big Bang Burger…

Time passes fast enough. He hears the ring of the bell downstairs before soft footsteps alert them of Yusuke’s presence.

Yusuke looks as if he hasn’t slept, the bags under his eyes dragging the rest of his face into an exhausted frown. They don’t crowd him, but Akira scoots a little further aside on his bed, watching as Yusuke sets his singular suitcase against the wall before joining him. The cat sits on the lithe boy’s feet when he’s settled against Akira’s shoulder, too light to be healthy and too shaky to be alright. Slowly, as if Yusuke was some kind of skittish animal, Akira weaves an arm around his back. ‘ _ You’re safe,’ _ he thinks, ‘ _ you’re safe and he can’t hurt you anymore.’ _

* * *

 

Akira taps his ribs  _ (too pronounced, sharp, curving up to his sternum too harshly) _ to a song he doesn't remember, traces nonsense patterns up to his collarbones. Yusuke looks as if he's never been afforded a gentle touch in his life, and it makes his blood boil so hard that he's worried his pulse shows in his throat. Suddenly, he's grateful that he decided not to include the rest of the Thieves; Yusuke needs this focus, this kind joining of souls before accepting a main role in the group itself. His breath hitches like a bird’s song when Akira nips along his jaw, soothing over each lovely bite with his tongue and his lips, with whispers of protection and devotion and promises people their age shouldn’t be making.

He wonders if Yusuke sees the same thing in his eyes that Akira saw in Ryuji’s, in Ann’s. That hunger, burning so deep in his chest that his organs feel like smoldering embers; unholy, and devout, and ravenous. If Yusuke can see it, is he afraid? Does he know what it means, to want and to take and to never return from it? Akira spends too much time thinking and not enough time kissing, and he’s pulled from his endless thoughts when Yusuke pulls him down, chest to chest, to kiss and bite his lips. 


End file.
